I stare at him, no longer a friend who sits at his bedside but a doctor who is holding his life and death in my hands. The power of that is fucking heady. Almost as much as the knowledge that I will be in Summer’s home within a couple hours. Almost, but not quite.
The man in front of me opens his mouth, flustering a few times. Then he glances away. “I had a granola bar or two for breakfast.” He looks back at me. “But my mother said she ate a full meal before her surgery and –”
I stand. “Not all bodies are the same, Mr. Astley. I will be canceling your surgery. You can see the receptionist to reschedule it.”
“Now hold on a minute,” he starts angrily. “I’ve been waiting here forever. Do the fucking surgery, or I’ll –”
“Threaten the man who’s responsible for you waking back up?” I ask calmly.
He sputters, and it takes everything in me not to laugh at how pathetic he is. All those muscles, and he’s been forced to listen to someone half his size.
Leaving the room, I find the surgeon and tell him I’ve cancelled the op. Normally, he’s annoyed if I do this, but today, he looks at me in understanding and concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly. I cut off my usual nod of arrogance and replace it with a downward glance of guilt. He eats it up like I want him to, but I don’t lay it on any thicker than that.
Lying is a skill; manipulation is an art.
“Yeah,” I say, clipped and flat, making it sound like a lie. Like I’m really torn apart inside, but I’m just too proud to say it.
“We all make mistakes,” he says.
I don’t say anything. Manipulation is all about letting people draw their own conclusions. If a person puts in the work to come to a decision, they’re more likely to believe it – even if future evidence says otherwise.
So I let him think whatever he wants to when it comes to my guilt. It would never cross his mind that I don’t feel such things.
Or that it wasn’t an accident at all.
Turning away from the surgeon, I seek out my superiors to see if I can leave early due to the cancelled op. They hear it as me asking for a bit of time after my ‘accident’ with Summer, and I don’t correct them. I merely tell them thank you, then make my way to the locker room.
With every step, my thoughts quicken.
When I get to my patient’s house, will I find it empty?
Or will I get caught by her boyfriend?
Four
After changing into my street clothes of dark-grey pants and a white button-up shirt, I jump into my car and head for Summer’s house. As I drive, I call my cousin, putting him on speaker with a press of the button on the steering wheel. He answers after a couple of rings, grunting as he says hello.
“For fuck’s sake, Asher,” I snap as I turn onto the highway towards Mobile, Alabama. I know what that grunt means. “Pull your dick out of them before you answer the phone.”
“I could hang up?” he says, his words throaty and deep. “That’s it, Mrs. Williams. Choke on my dick like a good girl.”
My jaw tics. Calling him back later won’t guarantee he won’t be sticking his dick down some other whore’s throat. He fucks almost more than he breathes, using his badge to pull women over who would do anything to get out of a ticket. He doesn’t force them. He just gives them a choice.
“Good girl,” he groans beneath his breath, and my eyes narrow.
Talking quickly so I don’t have to hear him come, I say, “Get me dirt on Ryan Grayson as soon as you can. I work with him at the hospital.” I don’t care if said dirt is found or planted; I just want a way to blackmail him so I can get some alone time with Summer. I checked the roster, and next week, he has four night shifts in a row. If I can blackmail him before then, I’ll be able to fuck her every night he works.
My cock starts to harden at the thought of it, but my cousin’s strained groan kills it quickly.
“Sure thing,” he pants, and I hang up before he finishes in her mouth.
I find Summer’s home easily. It’s on the corner of two roads, a small place with a tiny front yard. It’s almost touching the house beside it. There’s a waist-high chainlink fence between them, but the average American would struggle to walk down either side of it.
I pull onto her cracked driveway, then climb out of my Toyota like I have every right to be here. Slipping her key out of my pants pocket, I walk the two steps to the front door. I give a quick rap on the white paint-pealing wood in case she has a roommate or a dog. Hearing nothing inside, I let myself in.
Her living room is dominated by a gray three-seater, thread-bare sofa and a small TV that is balanced on an oak corner table. There’s a bra hanging on the back of the couch, and I reach down to grab it, then bring it to my face. I inhale, wondering if she took it off as soon as she got home or if someone unclasped it while they had their tongue inside her mouth.
